If It's Loudly Sung and in a Foreign Tongue
by AnnaTheVisitor
Summary: What if Meg had been Erik's friend all along? What would be different? What unexplained things would suddenly make sense? Kind of a crack fic. Meg has a great sense of humor. Follows most of the 2004 movie themes, sorry; but don't worry, I threw some Susan Kay and a little Leroux in there.
1. Chapter 1

**A note from the Opera Ghost: Christine and Erik will sing my own reprise of Angel of Music. Christine sings the general beginning, but Erik answers with the tune of "Christine, you must have been dreaming... Stories like this can't come true" etc. Just to avoid confusion.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. If I did, we'd have seen a better _Love Never Dies. _**

"God, you're such a whiny bitch."

Meg Giry leaned on Erik's organ, inspecting her nails and fixing her skirt.

"I haven't the time for your rude observations," Erik snarled from his desk, "I have many obligations to attend to. Please complain about your friends elsewhere."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I've heard it, haunting an opera house is _so hard_, all the time, people to see, threatening letters to write, organs to brood over... Speaking of which, how the fuck did you even get this thing _down_ here?"

"Nevermind that. I need you to deliver this to your mother." Erik, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, handed Meg a black-edged envelope, sealed with a skull of red wax.

"Do it yourself," she pouted. "You have hidy-holes all over this God-forsaken place."

Erik leveled a glare at her.

"All right, all right, I'm on it," Meg muttered, snatching the letter. "I'll be back in about seven minutes... Don't start working on DJT without me." And with a carefree wave, Meg was gone.

Erik sighed, leaning back into his seat. It _was_ hard work haunting an opera house. He didn't _really_ want to be dark and menacing. Well, dark, maybe; he looked really good in black, if he did say so himself. But there was a friendly, open part of Erik that longed to smile and shake hands with a normal person and say, "Hi, how are you?" A small, amiable part of him that yearned for companions other than his round-the-clock annoying-yet-useful friend Meg. Erik had a feeling that if Meg hadn't known him since birth, she wouldn't even like being around him. And he wasn't really a hard person to be around; it was just his face that complicated matters! Not a single person ever wrote back to any of his letters, not a single one! Oh, well, Erik sighed, dark and menacing pays the bills.

And, he told himself, there was really only one thing he needed to be happy. Just one. A warm blush spread over his cheeks as he looked sheepishly at his drawings; an astonishingly lifelike Christine Daaé smiled back at him from one of the many pencil drawings he had hanging up on the side of the stone wall. He had thirty seven of them, taped up on the wall, in procession starting from when he first met her thirteen years ago. The first was a lovely stick figure of the young Christine Daaé, mostly because he really hadn't had much reason to start drawing until then, a couple rough sketches and a few botched scrawlings and then about four perfect renderings, his favorite being the closest to his desk. He beamed, stroking her charcoal face with a gloved hand.

"Soon," he purred, "we'll be together. Soon, my Angel, soon..."

"Are you talking to your creepy Christine caricatures again?"

Erik leapt up in shock, knocking his chair to the ground and whirling to face Meg Giry leaning against the wall. Erik's cloak settled gracefully around him.

"That _so_ was _not_ seven minutes," Erik snapped, too embarrassed to sound as ominous as he wanted.

Meg threw back her head and laughed. "Mom was practically right outside the door. 'Neways, I ran into Christine on the way..."

Erik perked up instantly, hope lighting his eyes as he clasped his hands at his heart.

"No need to look so eager. She looked really focused on something; she barely even noticed me waving at her." Meg's face slipped into her classic pout, her default expression for most of the time.

"What can it mean?" Erik stepped over the still-turned-over chair and began pacing, cupping his chin as he stalked about the room, his brow furrowed.

"I'll give you a hint: she looked a little too excited about going to the old chapel tonight..."

Erik's face lifted, and with it his heart. "You mean she wants to see me?" He felt he would explode of pleasure.

Meg raised up her hands as if in surrender. "I dunno! She doesn't even know I know you-"

"I must go to her," Erik declared, dramatically drawing his cloak around him. He smoothed back his hair even though she wouldn't see it and touched his mask to test its security before turning to Meg. "How do I look?"

"Like a vampire."

"I was going for more of a Pagan-god-of-seduction look..."

Meg's laughter echoed through the halls.

Erik stuck his tongue out at her like a child and strode past her to the tunnel that would lead to the old abandoned chapel, giving Meg a playful shove on the way.

* * *

And, _one_ two three, _one_ two three; Meg practiced ronde de jambes across her bedroom. She was getting better at it, not quite as good as Joan but definitely better than Dominique. _I_ should _be better than Joan with the amount of time I put into practicing..._ Meg thought to herself, irked. She knew, though, that it was the time she spent around Erik that took its toll on her dance skills. But Erik needed her. And, if she was being totally honest, she needed Erik too. Her mother had introduced them when she was a baby; she didn't even remember what it was like to not know the Phantom. He helped her with her voice and piano lessons and in turn she helped him run little errands, like delivering letters and lighting candles. Sometimes she could even coax a drawing lesson out of him. Not that her sketches looked anything like what they had in her head, but without him, her drawings of the hot male dancer who started working at l'Opéra Populaire four years ago would probably look like that ridiculous stick figure of Christine that Erik kept up on his wall (she wasn't sure why he kept it. It kind of looked like Isaac Newton in a dress). Meg had watched Erik pine over Christine for thirteen years, which had been kind of creepy when he first saw her since he was like twenty and she was like seven.

But whatever! It wasn't like she could change his mind. Ever. Even on the most frivolous of matters. Meg rolled her eyes, remembering Erik's soft spot for sparkly things. And it wasn't the usual, like stealing diamond cat collars from Persian royalty or whatever, no, one time he bedazzled his fucking _mask_. He'd looked so _pleased_ with himself, too, twisting this way and that in the mirror to watch the light shimmer off the rhinestones (at least, that's what she HOPED they were), and would hear absolutely none of Meg's protestations. He never actually wore it out, thank God, but he still had it up on the shelf with his collection of masquerade masks.

Fondness quirked the corner of Meg's mouth up into the tiniest smile, and she continued her ronde de jambes. _One_ two three, _one_ two three...

* * *

Christine Daaé ruffled her hair.

She stood two steps away from the door that led to the old chapel, drawing in deep breaths for extra courage.

She'd been coming here for eleven years. You'd think by now it wouldn't be so nerve-wracking just to walk in.

But she couldn't help it. Every time she thought about her Angel of Music, she got a fluttery feeling in her chest and it was physically difficult not to smile. Was it her father? She wasn't sure. Her father had been more of a baritone; the Angel of Music had a more melodious voice, sometimes baritone but also sometimes tenor when he sang and bass when he was angry. And he got angry a lot. Gosh, she didn't want to displease him. She felt like he was a fleeting figment of her imagination, something insubstantial, incorporeal, _tentative_. Every step down the staircase and into the old chapel was a new fear: what if he wasn't there? What if he's grown tired of me? What if he gave up on me? What if I wasn't good enough? Fear of losing the Angel was her greatest motivation for performing her best at all times.

And, despite her fears, the Angel was always there, singing songs in her head. That's how she knew he was a real angel, of course. A normal man could never have done the things her Angel did, such as know exactly when she was going to be there, or how he throws his voice about the room, and how he can see her, but she couldn't see him. And, of course, no human could have a voice such as his. His voice was that of an archangel, something so surreal she felt unworthy of hearing it.

Christine stepped into the chapel, keeping her eyes low, and headed for the stand of candles near the altar. She knelt, drawing a match from the folds of her dress. Striking it against the ground, she touched the flaming head to a candle, a soft glow spreading throughout the room. The light of dusk streamed in through the stained glass window to her left, but night approached fast these autumn days, and a candle was her best companion. She shook out the match and placed its useless corpse in an empty candle tray.

Tilting her head upwards and nestling her hands in the chiffon of her skirts, she sang, "Angel of Music, Hear my Prayer, Grant to me Your Glory! Teacher of Song, I Summon Thee Here, Come to Me, Strange Angel!"

Barely a moment had passed when she heard his haunting reply:

"Once More We Meet in the Shadows, Trading Our Sweet Lullabies... Follow my Voice, I Will Guide You, Let Your Song Arise!"

A chill ran through Christine. His voice echoed like a violin. Clearing her throat, she answered,

"Guardian Angel, Sole Instructor, What Shall I Sing For You? Angel of Music, Let Me Please You, Show Me, I Implore You!"

Erik shivered. Christine wanted to know how to please him. It wasn't a difficult question to answer...

_Idiot_, he scolded himself, _as if being so near her isn't enough_.

He shook himself, and threw his voice right behind her, so it would sound as if he were whispering from behind into her ear.

"Sing with me _Là Ci Darem La Mano_, the duet from Don Giovanni. You recall it, I trust." He must remain full in control.

Christine closed her eyes and nodded.

Meg tiptoed toward the chapel. She had a break between now and rehearsal, and she was sick of practicing ronde de jambes. She'd never witnessed a lesson in session, and she was dying to see how it worked.

A completely unfamiliar piano tune floated up the staircase to Meg. What on earth? Since when was there a PIANO in the old abandoned chapel?!

"Vorrei, e non vorrei, mi trema une poco il cor," she heard Christine singing. Ugh. Italian. Or was it Latin? Whatever. As if she actually understood any of it. Which was why she was a dancer, not a singer; why bother singing a song no one understands, anyway? Latin, she found, was tedious.

Christine continued babbling; not that it wasn't lovely, of course, but was this all there was to the lesson?

"Vienni, mio bel diletto!" Erik unleashed the full power of his voice into the contained room, thrumming a deep baritone that resonated in one's chest long after the note had ended. Meg stood, floored. No wonder Christine was addicted to Erik's lessons. Meg had never really heard him sing like _that_ before.

Meg found herself wishing she knew Latin.

Or was it Italian?

She peeked around the corner. Christine stood in the middle of the room, candlelight throwing her shadow across the floor. She seemed to be singing to the wall; where was Erik's voice coming from? His specialty was mirrors, but there were none in the old chapel. _He must have rigged it somehow,_ Meg thought with a mental shrug.

The song ended on bright and cheerful notes. Christine bowed her head, tensing.

"You have been practicing Ritorna Vincitor?" Erik asked tersely.

Christine's shoulders slumped. "From Aida?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, from Aida," Erik nearly snapped. Christine recoiled and Erik instantly sweetened his voice. "Have you looked at it, Christine?"

Meg watched Christine carefully, noting the way she trembled slightly, the anxious way she held herself, the way she picked at her nails and tugged her dress. "Yes, Angel," she answered.

"You may sing it for me," Erik said dismissively.

Meg's blood boiled. Christine dove for thick book of soprano arias and flipped madly through pages until she found the right one and took her singing stance.

How dare Erik hypnotize Christine like that and expect her to love him through fear?! She feared him! Feared his wrath! He'd turned her into a dog, an all-too-willing slave. Erik was Meg's friend, but Christine was basically her _sister_. She would absolutely have to talk to him about this. His obsessiveness was bad enough, but the disdainful way he treated Christine was crossing the line. She watched the lesson progress, silently fuming.

After several more pieces, Erik's demands ceased.

"Do you request anything else of today's lesson?"

There was silence.

"Christine." His voice was stern.

Christine did not move.

"You may tell me anything, child. Voice your thoughts." His words, though an order, melted around the edges with the deep love Erik held for Christine. It was the same tone he used when Meg got him to start talking about his hopes for the future; it was a rare occasion, but he got a starry look in his eyes as he spoke of how he'd reveal himself to Christine some day, take her down to his lair, and ask her to marry him. He had everything planned perfectly; she'd seen the ring box on his desk a time or two. The sound of that voice calmed Meg a bit.

"Angel..." Christine hesitated.

"I am here."

Christine swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

A long stretch of tense silence ensued. Meg bit down on her lower lip.

When he finally spoke, his voice rang with all its fervor and intensity. Its depth nearly shook the room, and it came from every corner, as if it were the voice of God.

"I am the Phantom of the Opera."

Blackness swallowed the only candle lit.

Christine crumpled to the floor and did not stir.


	2. Chapter 2

**For Cameron.**

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers! You're my motivation. **

**Disclaimer: *double checks* nope, still don't own Phantom of the Opera. **

**Warning: Bit of a slow chapter. Sorry!**

**Okay, does anyone actually KNOW what Erik's mask is made of? Obviously it can't be plastic; it wasn't invented yet. I was thinking more along the lines of porcelain, or plaster, but the sites I checked say leather?¿? Well, if Leroux says leather... **

"Goddamnthatnogoodsonofabitrjdgegkyteqnc," Meg seethed under her breath. She hoisted Christine from the floor; for such a tiny person, she was surprisingly heavy. Meg screamed in frustration. It was really dark and there were a lot of stairs and Erik was an asshole. Abandoning her like this! If Meg hadn't been there to help, what would have become of their beloved Christine? She'd have woken up all alone and in the dark and cold. Meg had never been more furious in her life. She grunted as she tried to drag Christine's motionless body toward the stairs.

"Let me," a gentle voice pleaded from behind.

Meg shrieked and dropped her friend, tripping backwards and hitting her head on the wall. Erik stood behind her, holding a lantern. Desperate eyes and parted lips peeked from behind his white mask.

He reached a hand to help her up, but Meg leapt up on her own and slapped him hard across the face with all the might she could muster.

Erik stumbled, stunned, then whirled on her, eyes flashing.

"You swine," Meg spat, unaware. "I saw the whole thing, you slontze, how you treated her, how you scared the living daylights out of her and just abandoned her here all alone!"

"Meg-"

"I AM HAVING NONE OF IT. Get _out_, you weak excuse for a human being, and _never come back here again_."

Rage boiled in Erik's throat. He spoke nearly through gritted teeth. "You don't understand how delicate-"

"_Delicate_?! You look at Christine and tell me that's not the definition of _delicate_! All the while I thought-"

"MEG," the Phantom roared. "Be still."

Meg quieted.

"Now listen to me," Erik whispered, and Meg could hear tears in his voice. She almost regretted snapping at him. Almost, but not quite. "I love Christine. I love her so. After knowing me so long, you _can't_ doubt that, can you?"

Meg locked her jaw.

Erik continued. "We speak sometimes, of philosophical things. I asked her what she feared most..." Erik's gaze dropped to Christine's calm and beautiful face, peaceful on the floor where Meg had dropped her. Accidentally. "...And she said her greatest fear was losing me."

Meg looked up from Christine and into Erik's eyes, shrouded in the shadow of his white mask reflecting the lamplight. Tentatively, Meg reached up... And pulled the mask away.

Meg had seen him without his mask before, of course. But it had never been a source of fear, even as a child. All she ever felt... Was disgust. And pity. His face was twisted and gnarled horrifically out of proportion, skin stretched in some places and sagging in others, his malformed lips pinched up on the right, folds of skin drooping off his left eye. Faintly blue, it seemed to her, as if he lacked oxygen. Veins visible through wrinkles, a ghastly void where his mask had shaped a nose. Even now, Meg had to swallow her revulsion in order to see what she had questioned.

Yes, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"She doesn't want to lose me, Meg," Erik whispered, touching her arms with bony hands. "Maybe... Maybe she could..." Meg had to look away. And no, not because of Erik's macabre face; because of the joy and hope in his eyes. Meg squeezed her own eyes shut, avoiding tears herself. She was setting both her friends up for misery. By aiding him, even encouraging him, she kindled Erik's hopes of a love story between himself and Christine. By pretending to be oblivious to Christine's secret life, she let her hope for a beautiful angel to carry her to heaven. Each of their hopes set up the other's disappointment. She buried her face in her hands, one still holding Erik's mask.

"I must remain something intangible to her," Erik explained. "Something beyond her reach. Then, that way... She will want me. Human psychology generally confirms the nature of wanting things you can't have..." His eyes flickered to Christine. "...And I can personally testify to that." He padded lightly to Christine's side and knelt by her still form, reaching out a hand as if to caress her face, but hovering just above, hesitating. Then he looked up at Meg, as if asking permission. She slowly crossed the room and handed him his mask. He took it gingerly, replacing it on his face expertly.

"Meg. I have to do everything in my power to win her heart."

"This consumes you, Erik. You can have a life outside of Christine Daaé."

For a moment the two simply stood staring at the frail object of their concerns, the ethereal soprano lying still and tranquil.

Erik sighed. "I must return her to the dormitories."

"Not on your life," Meg growled. She leaned to pick up her friend and tried her very hardest not to look like she was struggling. _Handstand routines, don't fail me now_, she prayed as she tread toward the stone stairs. Erik watched her go with a heavy heart.

It was the closest he'd ever come to touching Christine.

* * *

_I am the Phantom of the Opera_.

The words rang and thundered in Christine's ears, again and again, overlapping, chilling. She remembered nothing after that, not even how she'd arrived all the way back into her dormitory, which was all the way across the opera house from the chapel. Meg said she'd seen her walk back, but Meg had been a bit reclusive lately, and Christine wasn't sure what she believed.

Maybe it had all been a dream.

After all, how could her Angel of Music be the fearsome Opera Ghost? The concept seemed almost laughable. For certain he was beautiful and golden and loving, a knight in white armor, she imagined. Surreal. Rumors of the Opera Ghost told of his ferocity, his sick habit of killing without a thought, and most of all, his grotesque and nightmarish face.

But she didn't really believe those rumors. Even if her beloved Angel really was the Opera Phantom, she would still believe in _him_ with all her heart. He had never failed her before, and questioning what she didn't know was frivolous. She nodded to herself; yes, frivolous. She rose from her perch at the edge of her bed and prepared for the day; rehearsals were underway for a new production of Chalumeau's _Hannibal_, an opera whose arias the Angel had drilled her on for weeks, despite the fact that she was only in the dance chorus.

_His faith in me really is something,_ Christine thought with a blush as she dressed.

Meg tripped up to her lightly, wearing an almost too-bright smile, already in her costume. Christine smiled back easily, pulling her top over her head, glad to see Meg seeming to return back to normal.

"Shall we head to the dressing rooms?" Meg offered her hand.

"I get to do your makeup!" The two ran off, giggling.

* * *

Erik slipped between the walls, eyes darting through familiar shadows, listening to scraps of conversation barely discernible. The omniscient Opera Ghost must keep up his reputation; nothing was to pass through the Opera Populaire without Erik's knowledge.

The shatter of broken glass and a murmured curse turned Erik's head to the male dressing room, where, as Erik could see through the slats of wood lining, a boy of about nineteen had dropped a bottle of liquor on the floor. Rehearsal was to start in five minutes; why was this one still in the dressing room? Erik narrowed his eyes, studying him.

As he knelt to sweep up the broken glass onto a sheet of paper-hands noticeably trembling-his muscles pulled taut, evidence of a finely toned and well-taken-care-of body. Bleary-eyed and red-faced though he was, one would have to be blind not to notice the subtle attractiveness in his features, a square jaw and perfectly straight nose, prominent cheekbones, dark curls that had strayed from their previously neatly combed style. If he could give up his alcohol, he would have his choice of women from the Opera. Erik had to look away.

And yet, there was something familiar in those features, in a peculiar way that nagged at the corners of Erik's mind; something in the the straight nose, the shape of the lips... As Erik struggled, irritated, the boy stood up shakily with his sheet balancing a pile of broken glass and turned toward the door when his foot caught on his shoe and he fell, scattering the glass about the room and hitting the ground with a loud _thud_.

Hard to believe the boy was a dancer. His grace was nonexistent.

At that moment, another boy of about his age burst through the door and, without hesitation, wove between the shards of broken glass to help the other boy off the ground.

"Duront," he sighed, "you said you would stop..."

"Hey, Alexandre," Duront greeted his friend as if just recognizing his presence. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at...?" He gestured with his hand toward the door.

"Yes," Alexandre answered in a chillingly patient voice, "and so should you."

Duront blinked, allowing his friend to support his weight. He looked around the room, seeming shocked by the dark green glass laying in sharp bits across the floor. Breathing heavy, Duront squeezed his eyes shut and curled the hand around Alexandre's shoulder into a fist.

"I did it again."

"I know."

"I can't stop."

"Yes, you can."

"What do I do?"

"Come on. I'll take you to rehearsal."

Alexandre took a careful step forward, guiding Duront through the glass.

As they opened the door, Duront looked up at his friend with pleading eyes.

"Please don't tell Father."

The door clicked shut.

His father. Of course. Erik took a step back. How could he have forgotten?

This boy, this drunkard with the lovely features and faltering step, was the son of Monsieur Reyer, head maestro for the Opera Populaire's orchestra.

* * *

"A franc for your thoughts?" Meg wrapped a red cord from her skirt around her finger as Christine braided her hair.

"Just thinking about life," Christine answered absently. "And music." She paused. "And angels."

"What about angels of music?" Meg asked tensely, pulling the cord a little too tight.

"What?" Christine sounded shocked.

"Nothing." She released the cord, leaving her finger striped white and red.

Madame Giry banged her cane on the stage floor where the ballerinas sat, effectively ending all conversation. "Ladies! We are working on scene four today! I want you stretched and ready to begin in _five minutes_!"

Every girl leapt to her feet, huddling in her own group of friends to warm up. Meg yawned and reached high above her head before touching her toes. Christine mimicked Meg's yawn, lowering herself into a split. The day was looking a little bleak. Christine held on to the promise of an hour-long break at 14:30, when the leading soprano Carlotta Giudicelli was to practice her arias for her character Elissa, the main female protagonist in _Hannibal_.

Christine frowned as she leaned to her side to touch her toes. This was the problem with the Paris Opera House. They didn't even let anyone try out for anything. Oh, you're in the chorus? Great! Stay in the chorus. Ugh. She'd never get a chance at a lead role; it was naturally expected that Carlotta would get the lead and her pompous husband would play her male counterpart. Christine had never been out of the chorus to be in anything but a small ensemble. How did her Angel of Music plan to take her where she longed to be? It seemed impossible to her.

"You're looking forlorn, Christine," Meg observed.

Christine's eyes shot from the ground to Meg's curious face. "Really? I didn't mean to."

"It's all right. Are you okay?"

_She looks so sincere, _Christine thought. "Yes," she answered with a smile, "I'm fine."

_I'm so lucky to have a friend like Meg._

* * *

Erik swung nimbly onto the catwalk above the stage, watching practice take place below him. Luckily, Duront wasn't the only alcoholic employed; Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, was once again nowhere to be found. This allowed Erik to sprawl across the ledge, resting his chin in his hands, crossing his ankles in the air. He smirked, content with being a part of the shadows where light did not touch. His cloak hung over the edge of the catwalk, balancing his weight as he tapped to the beat of scene four with his fingernails. They made soft clicks on his fine leather mask.

The ballet portion of rehearsals lasted until noon, when they began the chorus practice. Despite the shrill voices of pretty much everyone else, the singing chorus was always Erik's favorite. _I swear, I can pick out Christine's voice from a mile away,_ he thought absently, watching his favorite mess of brown curls fly as Christine danced.

Seeing Christine and Meg together was always an uncomfortable experience; like watching two completely different worlds collide. And in truth, they WERE two completely different worlds. Of his, at least. He never really _forgot_ that they were BFFFFL's or whatever, but seeing his best friend and the love of his life interact and talk and giggle and touch was always a shock to Erik. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit jealous of Meg's friendship with Christine. What he wouldn't give to be so close to her...

"H-hey!" A shaky voice cried from Erik's left. A young male, obviously a new recruit, stood at the other end of the catwalk, hesitantly trying to walk across without taking his eyes off of the Opera Ghost perched over the stage. Erik leapt up fluidly and melted into the familiar shadows that cloaked him day and night, intending to spare this boy by never seeing him again.

"No!" The boy forgot his hesitant footing and charged across the catwalk, heading blindly for the shadows where Erik hid.

* * *

"_Why_?" Meg shoved a piece of parchment at Erik. On it was printed the likeness of a young male who had once been a new recruit, and the warrant for his killer's arrest.

"I panicked!" Erik cried, rising from his desk. "I didn't mean to kill him- he was freaking me out and he didn't have his hand at the level of his-"

"This is ridiculous. He never did anything wrong. Do you have _any_ perception of good and bad?"

"Of course I do. But I also have reflexes and a Punjab lasso-"

"Which I am confiscating. No more killing people, okay?"

"But what if it's an emergency?!"

"Then do what _normal_ people do and _call the police_!"

Erik drew back a step. "I am not a normal person, Meg."

His friend sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. But let me tell you something. Christine deserves better than a monster. And this, this killing without a thought business, it's monstrous. You want to be worthy of Christine, don't you?" She paused to glance up.

Erik hung his head. "Yes. You know I do. But it's in my nature... She'll never know..."

"But _you_ will."

"Personally, I see no problem."

"You just murdered an innocent man in cold blood. There are a couple of things that will put Christine beyond your grasp, and that, sir, is one of them."

Erik hefted a sigh, settling back into his chair. "I need to think."

"I'll say." Meg snatched the poster from Erik's grasp, smoothing out the crinkled edges. "Damn. He was cute."

Erik made a swipe at his best friend, who dodged easily and mussed his hair.

"Before I go, I'll have that noose of yours." Meg held one hand out to him, waiting, the other hand at her eyebrow.

Erik growled, but reached into his cloak. "I swear, you're worse than my mother."

"Didn't your mother neglect you for the entirety of your childhood and deny you affection while forcing you to wear a mask and never letting you outside or even have a proper education which ultimately drove you out of the house by the time you were eight?"

"Yes, but at least she never took my playthings."


End file.
